The Second: A Dark Tower Story
by rm212
Summary: In The Drawing of the Three, Roland briefly faces a NYC police officer who remembers the face of his father. This is his story. Prologue of a much longer work - if good response I'll continue the story.


The Second: A Dark Tower Story  
  
Prologue: The Over  
  
What Roland didn't know (though it probably wouldn't have concerned him that much if he had) in the last week when he was preparing Calla Bryn Sturgis for the last stand against the child-thieving wolves from Thuderclap, was that Henchick, the old Manni patriarch, had a vision of a man, a rose and a door.  
The dream shook the old shaman's bent, liver-spotted frame as though his spine had become a tuning fork. 'No' Henchick thought, 'not a dream – a vision sent by the Over.' At this silent invocation of the power of the White, the trembling in his chest suddenly abated. Henchick stood, crouching slightly at the shoulders both from rheumatism and the pitched, red-tile ceiling of the Manni high priest's meditation hutch. The fire had burned low and when he exited, back popping pleasantly when he was able to stand straight (say-thankee) he noticed Old Mother had veered queerly to the North. "Oh well" he said briskly, slipping his long blue robes over his bony, sweaty frame. "The world has moved on."  
The vision stayed with him as he made the necessary rites around the perimeter of the hutch, thanking the Over for insight and enlightenment as he went todesh (not quite todash for that was traveling with form – this was more akin to a transparent eyeball scanning other worlds). As he sprinkled blessed lemongrass oil first clockwise and then counterclockwise on the ground circling the low hutch he thought, "a man, a gunslinger. But how can that man be in the Lud-city I saw with the sky-scrape buildings? He is here, doing his damndest to chase back the devil." When the lemongrass was spread he, almost absent mindedly, picked up the cactus thorns, now gleaming wickedly in the new moon glow and began the same slow first clockwise then counter walk as before. "The man is in the city with the rose this gunslinger talked of. I saw him - saw that man in the city - saw his straight shoulders, his black uniform." Henchick's eyes widened. He said a silent "thankee-sai" to the turtle, the Over and the White, then quickly finished his rites of blessing around the hutch and march stepped as fast as his bunioned and twisted feet would take him to the crowl, the long, narrow slung building which served as both church and gathering sight in the center of the Calla Manni village.  
When he arrived there, all but the oldest of the Manni-folk had already gone to their personal huts, some to tuck in their ka-babbies, others, especially the younger couples, to lay together and make more babs' if they could, or simply to sleep. The gathered assembly, some fifteen or so, were the elders of the village. Mostly men, but two or three elderly women, these folken slept little and found comfort in the crowl. Ostensibly, they talked theology and re-told the same stories, sharing the knowledge they learned while todash. Mostly, however, they simply gossiped as old men and women will do.  
Henchick did not rush in, scarce of breath, yelling "Eureka!" or even "Rejoice! We conquer!" Though, as he trotted his old man trot the three miles into the Manni village proper from the meditation hutch, he did begin to believe that what he had seen was no ordinary todesh. Instead, he entered solemnly, raised his hands in the benedictory fashion as was customary to the head of any Manni tribe. Supinely, the collected villagers gave him a bored "save-thee," which was the customary response. Henchick dropped his hands and picked his way around the large, pinewood table in the center of the room where Marcus and Marissa-El, his second and third in command respectively (although Marissa-El's naming was something of a long-running controversy – never had a women, even a woman who had traveled to as many worlds as Marissa-El, been appointed to such a place in the village's hierarchy) were sitting contentedly, conversing lowly. Marcus, though he had buried three wives and had a score of gran-gran ka- babbies looked like a plump, red-faced baby. His sparse grey beard only worked to accentuate his jowls, and foolish though he was, even Henchick was willing to admit, Marcus was the wisest man in village (perhaps in the Calla arc) when it came to the history of the Eld. Sitting next to him was Marissa-El, her bright eyes sleepy with a good meal and a warm lodge. Her face always looked to Henchick like a roasted apple – small, wrinkled, weirdly moist even in this edge-of-the-darkness Calla. "Hail sai-Henchick" Marcus said loudly thumping his throat three times not with his first three fingers, but with the index and pinky traditional of Manni folk and ward from the evil eye. "Pleasant days and pleasant nights!" Marcus continued. Henchick greeted him amiably, though slightly irritated that his second in command would be drinking graf while he was still in the meditation hutch. "And twice the number to thee" the Manni chief replied, touching his old friend's arm tenderly. "Thee's in need of counsel." Marissa-El toned lowly, ominously, and Henchick turned to her full face. He couldn't hide his surprise, though she was maddeningly, preternaturally gifted in the ability to slide between worlds while todash, Marissa-El had never been strong in the touch. As though reading his thoughts again, she continued, "its not hoo-doo sai. Though thee may try for casual, your need is written all over your face."  
Henchick said nothing, still too shocked and discombobulated by both his vision and the start of this conversation. "Don't worry" Marissa-El went on. And then in a low voice which belied her age, "'Tis a book an old friend can read." Henchick smiled at her warmly.  
"What's on your mind, Henchick?" Marcus asked, his eyes suddenly much clearer than they had been only moments before.  
Henchick met the man's seriousness, his will with a somberness he wasn't expecting of himself. After a moment's pause he began tentatively.  
"'Tis a story fragmented by circumstance – if that makes sense to ye. I believe the Over sent me a vision. I believe...well that is...I believe yon gunslingers in the Calla are coming to serious times. The Over..." he paused, not because he disbelieved himself, but because he knew well that if his interpretation of the vision was correct, his Manni tribe would be swept up in a quest which they knew was morally ambiguous at best – that The Dark Tower was stretching its poisoned arms to their pious village.  
"Go on, sai." Marissa-El said calmly. "The other old farts ain't listenin'."  
"That's right. It is myself and thee and thou. No others." Marcus gestured to himself, Henchick and Marissa-El in turn. "Tell us what you saw."  
Henchick licked his lips and cleared his throat lightly. "I say thankee, to both of thee." He lowered his head, an uncharacteristic gesture for the proud leader. When he raised it again, Marissa-El and Marcus saw a glint of madness in his eyes. It was like a fury had descended on the man.  
"Let me begin," Henchick said, "by telling you that I believe the gunslingers in the town are coming into hard times – very hard. And I don't know if they'll make past this test of fealty to one another. I hope they do, for they may well be the last. The last, as ye know," he tilted his head to Marcus, "of the line of Eld. But, now here me very well ka- tet, share my khef as I share yours," Marcus and Marissa-El leaned in as Henchick's voice got lower and lower. "I think the Over sent me a vision of another. There is a gunslinger in the Lud-city with the Pinioned Rose. He knows the face of his father, here me. There, he is a lawman, but we must bring him here to continue Roland of Gilead's way. For I fear the ka- tet of nineteen may well be lost to the Tower in nigh but a month's time." 


End file.
